


Undercover

by LadyoftheShield



Category: Legend of Luke - Fandom, Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Amputation, Blood, Brothers, Captivity, Death, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, phantom pains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyoftheShield/pseuds/LadyoftheShield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riverwyte copes with the recent loss of his tail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> Request from laflenkenway on tumblr.

Sometimes, in his dreams he’d remember the battlecries and laughter of his tribe. Othertimes, they were snatches of colorless, quiet memories- Bargud teaching him and Warthorn to carve delicate fish bones, racing with his brothers against the current of the Northfork Stream.

Sleep no longer came easily to him. There was too much to think about, too many thoughts swirling in his head. The pain in his tail did nothing to help. His tail was gone, severed. He felt the wind blowing on his lower back, felt no barrier between himself and the ground when he laid on his back, and yet it still itched and kinked as if it had never been taken from him.

He had been very close to cutting through the hardened wooden grate that kept him trapped inside the pit with a stolen arrow head, but after he’d lost his tail, he hadn’t been able to drum up the motivation. He couldn’t run even if he had finished the job, let alone fight. Without his tail, walking was like navigating the decks of a storm-tossed ship for the first time. At best, his motion remained unsteady. At worst, he fell and had to struggle to his feet again as the vermin jeered and looked on.

His hand tightened around the arrowhead, the sharp flint edges digging into his paw. Riverwyte was going to get out eventually. All of these vermin were going to pay for what they did to him.

But he could wait.

He had finally managed to drift to the point where he could ignore the pain enough to let himself sleep when the battlecries began to echo again. For a moment, he thought it was in his head again, and he curled up tighter, clinging to the memory of the family he had left behind, trying to reject the thought (what would they think of me now).

Then something slammed against the grate, fully waking him.

A ferret lay crumpled against the grate, mouth open mid call of alarm.

Leaning against the walls of the pit, he stood. Blood dripped from its tunic, falling onto Riverwyte’s head. Bracing himself against the walls of the pit, he climbed up and worked the guard’s dagger free. Now or never. Between the battle and the moonless night, he should be able to slip into the forest. He could take care of himself from there.

The knife, unsurprisingly for a vermin weapon, was dull, but metal cut faster than flint, and his cuts in the wooden lattice were nearly through. Breaking the last of the wood, he pulled himself out of the pit. A wave of pain punched through him and he stopped for a moment, clenching his teeth and digging his claws into his paws until it passed.

One step. Then another, he thought, picking up a fallen spear and leaning on it as he got to his feet. His paw tightened on the haft, battlelust singing in his blood. But even he knew he was in no condition to fight, and with a low sigh, he pressed on.

Fire and blood filled his snout. He did not recognize this ottertribe that had managed to breach the pitifully constructed walls of the would-be warlord, but it was all the more reason to get clear of this mess while he could. He wanted nobeast’s pity, and especially not from strangers. He just thanked the stars that his family was far from here, unaware of his shame.

“There’s one of the dirty vermin! Get him!”

The shout behind him was barely a warning, yet it was enough. He spun, bringing the shaft of the spear up-

Only to lose his balance and fall with a yelp. Riverwyte twisted to the side, narrowly dodging the javelin that plunged into the earth where his torso had lain a moment ago.

“I’m not with them,” he snapped, scrabbling to get back on his feet. But inside, he knew he would not be believed. Between the darkness, his grey fur and lack of a rudder, she had every reason to believe he was one of the filth.

The ottermaid’s eyes were as hard as the teeth she bared. “Liar!” she snarled, and charged again. 

Even bereft of his balance, Riverwyte remained the champion wrestler of his tribe. While Warthorn was the largest in size and strength of his brothers, Riverwyte had the speed and agility of a robin stealing food from a hare. Kicking her feet out from under her, Riverwyte slammed her against the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Staggering back to his feet, he glanced over at the closest wall gate. If he could just get through, he’d be free of this.

“Stop him!” The otter he’d fought was regaining herself.

Pounding footsteps and shouts swelled behind him. Breaking into a run, Riverwyte remembered too late that this, too, had been stolen from him.

However he had expected to die, he thought as he tried to reach the spear he dropped, murdered by a tribe of otters caught in battlelust had not been it.

“I ain’t with them,” he snarled as they caught up to him, his claws barely touching the tip of his weapon. It lay too far out of reach. Angry voices rose around him, disgusted with his cowardice.

“Bula, hold.”

He stopped moving, the voice slamming into his brain with all the weight of the heavy shadow that fell over him.

No. No. No.

“Riverwyte?”

No.

Slowly, Riverwyte looked up. Warthorn had never been small, but in the seasons since Warthorn had left the tribe, he had thought his brother would stop growing somewhere along the line. This didn’t seem to be the case.

“Warthorn,” he said, finally grabbing the spear and allowing it to hang loose in his paw, “It’s been a while.”

(Maybe he won’t-)

Warthorn did. Riverwyte knew the exact moment, because his younger brother’s eyes flashed with a myriad of emotions. His face settled into a mask of rage, but his eyes met Riverwyte’s, filled with pity.

And Riverwyte hated him for it.


End file.
